Tracks in the Sand
by Livyathan
Summary: Within our past, the moments that create us... define us.
1. Face to Face

Face to Face

"You have to trust me," Bill whispers, brushing calloused fingers across her soft cheek. Her hands rest just about his navel, grasping loosely at his black shirt. Blonde and red hair falls between his vision; his forehand is pressed against hers. It's been seven months since the attack and Fleur still finds it difficult to bring her eyes to his scarred face. She knows it doesn't matter deep down; she will always love him no matter what happens. Bill's other hand lingers in that space between her shoulder and right breast, and she can see the glint of his wedding ring from the corner of her eye. Hatched scars patchwork across the backs of his hands and up his arms, and the end of his bandages poke out from beneath his rolled up sleeves. The scars on his face remain the hardest to look at, the hardest to bear. Three large scars stretch from his ear to across his nose, and two smaller ones diagonally break up his lips on the left side. Another danced down from his hairline and broke up his eyebrow. Smaller scars linger along his jaw and down his neck; many of the minor injuries have already healed. His face may have changed, but at least deep down he was still **her** Bill.

Fleur's fingers curl into his shirt now, clutching at him with more ferocity, more need. She had been so independent before Bill came along; so determined that she didn't need anyone to survive in a foreign country. But she had been wrong. Eventually, she forces her gaze away from his chest, until, beneath all the scars and calloused skin, his warm, loving gaze smiles back at her. She leans forward, her arms automatically encircling his waist. Bill sighs in relief; he hadn't realized he had been holding his breath until his arms are around her shoulders and her face is buried in the crook of his neck. She doesn't need to say anything; the simple action is enough to put Bill's fears at ease.

Come what may, she will always trust him.


	2. Betrayal

Betrayal

"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings."

Her resolve flickers, and for a moment he is completely right: love isn't just something said. It was something lived; a way of speaking and acting that defined an entire way of life. And she can tell, looking up at his dear face, that he loves her just as deeply and completely as the way she once loved him. She was about to destroy him, and she loves that idea more than anything.

She steps back, letting his arms fall to his side. The hurt look in his eyes does nothing to sway her. Her task is her first priority, and he no longer holds any power in her life.

"I'm sorry…" Her words are hollow, emotionless. She lunges forward, shoving her fist deep in his gut. She can feel the air leave him, his peppermint breath dances briefly through her hair. He falls to his knees, clutching his cut and coughing violently. She turns from him, and lets her eyes fall on the shadows behind her.

"Take him," She orders. Two hooded figures emerge from the shadows. Heavy chains are suspended between them, charmed to tighten around their victim every time they attempt to escape. The taller of the men approach him, grabbing his wrist and twisting them violently behind his back. He lets out a cry of pain. The snapping of handcuffs is the opening scene to his downfall. The other man wraps the chains around him tightly, and another cry of pain alters her that the chains are doing their job. She already knows several of his ribs are broken, and his shoulder was previously dislocated. This only causes him more pain and her more satisfaction. The men lift the boy to his feet, large hands wrapped painfully around his biceps.

She can feel her brothers' broken faces starring at her with disbelief. She knows they never expected this out of their baby sister, no one did. She was supposed to love this man to the ends of the earth; follow his orders to the letter, without question, and marry him when everything was done. But that was blind fantasy that held only until she met Tom. Tom had shown her the light, that his ways… his vision, would be so much better for everyone in the end. She and the Malfoy boy were being groomed to his personal bodyguard, his strongest weapons. They already sat beside him at meetings, were the top two in his Inner Circle. The mark burns her left arm suddenly, and she pulls back her sleeve to reveal a faint green glow. She hears her parents cry out to her; they have been restrained by the chains as well.

"Voldemort grows impatient. Take him away; I will deal with the others." She orders in a tongue her family cannot understand. She is not their little girl anymore; she has finally come into her own: a fierce, passionate young woman, and a loyal follower of Him. One of them mumbles something, before they disappear back into the shadows.

"Ginny…" It is her father's voice that causes her to turn to them. She has always loved her father's blue eyes. They were always his best feature, she thinks. Boldly, she pulls back her hood. No mask hides her face, or the hurt behind her green eyes. She wants them to see the satisfaction this will bring. Deep down, a part of her still loves her family; the little girl that still loved pistachio ice creams and playing quidditch on warm summer days. The little girl that once idolized the bleeding fools now knelt before her; that thought the highest place in the world was on her father's strong shoulders. The little girl that thought Harry Potter was everything. Too bad that little girl is dead. She grins maliciously. She knows there is no escape. She rejoices in the fact that she is the reason her father's eyes are now littered with tears, the reason Hermione's dead body is a crumpled heap only feet away from her brother, the reason Harry is now lying on the ground, bound and subjected to Voldemort's wrath. She hates that it was her family that betrayed her.

They didn't understand, she thinks, how hard life was after Tom left. They didn't understand that she had no one, and no matter how hard they tried to ignore what happened, to return to a normal life, her family was only making it worse. By coddling her, by protecting her, they were only bringing her down. Tom helped her to her feet again, made her a spy to bring down Potter and her family and the Resistance from the inside out. She is the poison that will drain the life from Harry's body.

"Don't," Her voice is harsh, and her mother flinches involuntarily. "Don't start. It's already over."

"How could you do this?" Her brother cries, struggling violently against chains that will not give. Suddenly, as he struggles, broken and defeated, she isn't scared of him any longer. The years of hidden abuse from him no longer matter. Now, she has the upper hand. Leaving her father's side, she approaches her brother. Fresh blood drips onto his torn shirt from the bloody nose Velaris gave him earlier during the fight. Two of his fingers are broken, and a black ring is forming around one of his eyes. She doesn't care. She looks at him with disgust, he is the brother she hates the most. He flinches; fiery green eyes stare back at him, boring holes into the back of his head. Large curls frame her tragically beautiful face, and a scar he had given to her years ago breaks up a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"How dare you," Ginny seethes, slapping her brother hard across the face. "How dare you accuse me of anything? I am done taking your shit, Ron. All those years of abuse mean nothing to me anymore." She stands back, her six foot one frame towering over her brother. Green eyes sweep over her family. He requested no proof of the deed, knowing her pain and her loyalty would be enough to drive her, the same way he had killed his own family all those years ago. For a moment, Ginny does not move. Her next move proves to be cold, calculating. Reaching into her robe, she withdraws her wand as her eyes roam over three of her brothers and her parents. She knows Charlie fell in Romania protecting his dragons; Bill had smuggled his family back to France, only to be killed in a raid. Percy had long been dead. The twins have yet to move, to say anything. If looks could kill, she thinks. Had she been in the mood, perhaps she would have drawn Ron's death out longer, to make his suffer in exchange for all those years she suffered under him. Such is not the case today. She turns on her brother, and points her wand squarely at his chest. Her mother is screaming at her, begging her not to do it. A malicious grin dances across her face. She truly doesn't care. She whispers the spell loud enough for her mother to hear, and a deathly green light hits her brother square in the chest. Ron's body falls to the ground with a 'thump', and the twins soon follow suit. Her mother's screams echo painfully in her ear. She refuses to spare even a few words for her mother, only a pained, hollow stare.

"What has happened to my Ginny? Where did she go?" Her mother begs. Tears stain her already red cheeks. For a moment, Ginny is silent, wondering herself. The answer does not take long to find.

"She died in that chamber all those years ago." A green light flashes, and Molly's body crumples to the ground. Her father looks on in horror, wondering how on earth his little pixie could commit such a horrible crime. When Ginny turns on him, he shuts his eyes, not wanting to remember his little girl as a cold killer.

"Velaris," Her voice echoes through the empty room. He does not recognize the name or the spell if it is one. He takes the chance and opens his eyes, only to find a pair of bright violet ones starring him in the face.

"You call, my lady?" They are speaking in a language that Arthur does not recognize. The young man rises to his feet, and turns to look at her. she shakes her head and speaks again.

"Take him to Voldemort. He holds valuable information regarding the Resistance, and Potter's plans. I have no further use of him." The young man bows low. He does not correct her when she says 'Voldemort' instead of 'The Dark Lord'; it is not his place to do so. He turns to Arthur. A pale hand reaches out beneath a torn robe, and finds its place on his shoulder. In an instant, he is gone.

And for the first time in a long time, the only thing she is left with is her thoughts. But it does not matter; nothing matter anymore. They are dead, and the only thing they left behind were their memories… and their betrayal.


	3. Memories

Memories

"Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose."  
~ Kevin Arnold

She does not allow herself to cry as her uncle's voice speaks about what kind of person he was; kind, caring, ambitious. He loved life more than anything, loved taking risks, and loved his family. He was loyal to no end, and there whenever he was needed, be it night or day. He had the answer to every problem, every question. A smile for every laugh, a hug for every tear. He will always be remembered as 'their Teddy', her uncle says.

She wants to scoff, to shout and cry and tell her uncle that he is wrong. He did not know Teddy, not like she did. They had no idea just how in love with life the real Teddy was, just how much in love the real Teddy was with her. They don't know him, she thinks, they barely even got to know him.

The real Teddy always had a smile on his face, she remembers. His hair was always blue, but never around her family; his hair was black when he was with them. His eyes were blue when her father was around. She remembers his eyes being purple when they were alone. His favorite food was scones, and he hated the taste of Firewhiskey. The real Teddy loved their get-away summer holidays when they explored France and Spain and Italy, and wandered the beaches freely in their bathing suits without the watchful eye of her mother, or grandmother. His favorite drink was coffee, and had fallen in love with a Muggle sport called 'lacrosse'. His best friend Max was teaching him how to play.

It is their moments alone that she remembers vividly. Cuddling on the couch in their flat; drinking hot chocolate in the winter and running bare foot along the pristine beaches of the Caribbean. Their skiing trip to the Alps, birthdays and Valentine's Day. Escaping to the old weeping willow in her grandmother's back yard during family gatherings; make-out sessions in her father's broom shed when they were younger. Surprise visits at work and long walks under the moonlight. Soft kisses between 'hello' and 'goodbye'; holding hands in public, comforting whispers after a hard day at work and lazy Saturdays. She remembers how he loved to cook, and how he would pass up a quidditch game with his friends if it meant spending time with her.

Tears begin to prick at her eyes, but she forces them away. She will not shed public tears over private moments. His casket is closed, she notices, and thinks it has something to do with the disfiguration caused by the dragon. He loved working with dragons, she remembers, and his job at the Vladimir Gotchick Dragon Preserve and Research Facility. He was working close with her uncle Charlie on a cure for a recent outbreak of dragon flu. An untamed Horntail brought in from Germany ended up being a 'scale biter', attacking every dragon in sight. He was killed trying to protect the hatchlings from being crushed. Teddy always did have a soft spot for children.

A framed close-up picture of them cuddling on the beach in Spain rests by his head. She loves that vacation. Before she knows it, the service is ending with some fat man speaking about how he can finally reunite with his parents and be at peace. Victorie only wants to bash the man's skull in. Those people aren't his family, her heart screams; his family is here, with her.

That night, as she dreams dressed in a pair of his favorite sweatpants and a t-shirt that smells like him, Victorie's mind is put as ease, if only for a while. Teddy may be gone physically, but as least she can still be with him in her dreams… and in the memories that are locked deep in her heart.


	4. Gone So Young

Gone So Young

"Sorrows cannot all be explained away in a life truly lived, grief and loss accumulate like possessions."  
~ Stefan Kanfer

Angelina feels the air rush from her lungs. This must feel like drowning, she thinks, as she suddenly finds it harder to breath with each word that passes his brother's lips. She remains in denial throughout the meeting, convinces herself that this must be some cruel, cruel joke; he cannot be gone. He promised he would come back, that everything would be fine, that there was no way he would get hurt, that they would have a life together and grow old and senile and crazy until forever. But the look in his brother's eyes, eyes so much like his own, is painful, dying. She hears his mother wailing in the background, his older brothers' screaming, his youngest one comforting his only sister, his favorite sister. She does not remember pushing past him, or dodging his mother's hugs. They haven't touched him at all; he remains how he fell when the spell struck his chest.

A small trail of blood leaks from his nose, and his jaw is slack, hanging open. A deep cut above his eyebrow has leaked blood into his eye, caked with mud and grime. She can see the simple silver necklace she gave him last Christmas peeking out from under his torn shirt; the ring on his finger sparkles in the moonlight. His bright blue eyes, those rambunctious eyes once so full of life and happiness and love, love for her, stare back at her. They are devoid of life, of pain, of anything and everything. He died almost instantly, she knows, as she kneels down beside him. She reaches out, and brushes his shaggy hair form his broken face. His face that will never smile at her again, or laugh, or tell a corny joke, or entice her with a corny pick-up line.

She feels the tears coming now, free-flowing down her own dirty, bloody cheeks. She knows he did this for her, fought for their future and their children. Children they will never have in a future that no longer exists. Sobs wrack her tired body, as she begins to mumble nonsense. She can feel George's presence nearby, but he knows better than to approach her. She wants nothing more than the scream, to cry and shout about how it isn't fair; about how Katie still has Lee, and how Alicia still has George. She finally collapses against his cold skin, a sensation foreign when compared to his usually flush complexion. She knows now that the years they spent together are the only things she has left of him. Grief and loss will slowly take her over, and consume the life she had with him, the life she could have had with him. Her tears soak his shirt, and her heart finally breaks with the sad, terrible truth: Fred was gone, and despite her pleas, her cries, he was never coming back.


	5. Worth a Wound

Worth a Wound  
_"It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain."_  
- John Watson | BBC's _Sherlock Homles_

Luna was struggling to breathe.

Her ribs were burning, and she could feel the skin along her ribcage beginning to blister from the curse that she had been hit with. Struggling across the courtyard, she had found a space behind a fallen pillar to hide in momentarily, if only to wipe the blood from a broken nose. She dared not look down at the white button shirt now soaked in red and clotting sickeningly with blood and fluid. She was sure at least a few ribs had been cracked with the force of the impact. For all her bravery and optimism, she was afraid: of this war, of those who sought blood-purity, of a life which should have been enjoyed. Ever so slowly, Luna's mighty walls were crumbling.

"Luna? Luna!" A familiar voice rang out through the nearly empty courtyard. The fighting had ceased on Voldemort's orders; something about gathering the dead and nobility and honor. She tried to move, to alert the voice to her presence, but her legs slipped from underneath her, and a painful cry escape split lips.

"Luna? Is that you?" A dirty blonde head appeared over the pillar as Draco climbed over the rubble. Landing on his knees next to her, he saw the extent of her injury through her shirt. He tried to speak, but at the site of the girl he loved bleeding out, he found that words failed him. Luna shook her head fleetingly, platinum curls falling around her face. Draco smiled softly when he spotted her radish earrings swinging from her ears. She brushed a hand against his cheek, smearing dirty and blood like war paint against pale skin, and for the first time since their unconventional friendship had begun, Luna saw his walls crumble.

It was worth it, she though. It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of loyalty and love which he had so bravely and meticulously hidden by that cold, pale mask. His usually clear, hard eyes had dimmed for a moment, either with realization or resignation that she might not be walking away from this; the firm lips were shaking as a single tear escaped from gunmetal eyes. For the first time in his life, Draco allowed another to glimpse at his broken, poorly protected heart.

Leaning down, he brushed a soft kiss against bloodied lips, and took her in his arms as he hauled himself to his feet.

By the time he had managed to reach the Great Hall through the maze of rubble, Luna's head was cradled in the crook of his neck; a final, fleeting peaceful smile was on her broken, bloodied face.


	6. Tell Her

Tell Her 

"Please tell her not to cry," He whispers to her little sister. "Tell her I never meant for love to leave her cold tonight. Please tell her that I tried to spare her from all my lies. Tell her… that I love her. Tell her something, Dominique, anything." She pulls back from him, the man that they had all grown up idolizing, glorifying. They would have followed him to the ends of the earth back then, if that's where their adventures took them. Dominique stares at him for what feels like forever. He has not changed, she thinks, from that blue-haired little boy from their childhood. He is taller now, almost as tall as her father. His hair, gods bless him, is still that bright baby-blue, and stands straight up on his head. A black beard, ironically matching black eyebrows, covers his jaw and two earrings are in his left ear. His eyebrow rings glints from the moonlight above. It breaks her heart, knowing that he is leaving. She does not know if, or when, he will come back. She does not want to know.

Her sister is upstairs, fast asleep. She does not know he is leaving, or had even thought about leaving. Dominique knows Teddy's heart is not with him. He left it with her sister, forever hears. He is not looking forward to spending the next couple of years of his life in America, but he thinks it may do him some good to get away from England for a while.

"I'll tell her, Teddy." She finally says. A boyish grin breaks up Teddy's features; that smile is her sister's favorite. The one that makes his eyes shine, and forces a smile back at him. He does not say anything more, simply hands her a folded piece of parchment with 'Victorie' scribble across the front. Dominique understands immediately; Victorie will have his letter when she is ready for it. He waves one last time, as he turns and walks out past the safety wards surrounding the small cottage. Dominique watches as the moonlight hits his hair, and then, he is gone.


End file.
